Cat in a Room Full of Rocking Chairs
by SuperKateB
Summary: Nothing can make Greg come unglued like a renaissance man waiting on blood test results. (GregGil mild slashiness.)


"**Cat in a Room Full of Rocking Chairs"  
****A CSI Fanfiction  
****Written by Kate "SuperKate" Butler**

I'm about as comfortable, waiting inside the blood evidence lab, results clutched in my hands, as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

Results always make me nervous. They make me nervous because there's an expectation for them to be correct. If you find blood spatter on a wall when your victim was strangled, you expect that the blood is from the perp. And then, you hand it to me, your happy little blood tech, and you want it to be from the perp. You expect it, and you're waiting. And dammit, if it's not – if it matches the victim or his mother or his dog or another non-suspect – then the happy little blood tech earns a look that could turn the sun into a ball of ice, and I'm stuck sulking about and rechecking results and hoping for the best.

Well, okay. I have to take some of that back. With most the CSIs here, I'm pretty cool about results. Really cool, actually. Calm, collected…like a cucumber. Iced cucumber, even. My head's on straight, I'm serene as a mountain lake in Tibet – well, okay, not completely. Since I have no one here to impress, the truth is that I'm a geek. Any way you slice it, I am one big geek.

But I'm not nervous, when I present results to the others. I don't get the butterflies. I'm not waiting for my tail to be stepped on. I'm okay, then.

But then, we have Mr. Brilliance. Mr. Perfect. Mr. Impervious. The god-damned smartest person in the history of the known universe. When I graduated college, I could have gone anywhere to work, but I came here. Las Vegas Crime Lab. Because of Mr. Genius. I don't know what it is about a renaissance man that makes the salivary glands wet and the heart hop into double-time, but it does. And when you know that renaissance man is possibly one of the most brilliant creatures on the planet, it just triples and quadruples the natural reaction.

When he needs a result, it's not just a simple, "The blood spatter matched/didn't match/wasn't human/wasn't really blood" answer. He expects so much more than that. He expects science, and not just any science. He expects rock-solid science that makes sense, that backs his theory, that makes it all come together in a bolt of inspiration. And so, I wait with bated breath for him to come around that corner, results in my hands and eyes trained ahead, praying I don't have anything nasty on my lab coat.

He turns the corner and I spring away from the wall, waving the folder. So much for being cool, calm, or collected. "Gris! Hey, Gris!" I call as he approaches, and he glances up from some book he's reading – for a case or pleasure, I can't really tell – to look down at me through his glasses. Mmm. Renaissance man in glasses….

So much for being cucumbery cool.

"I have those results for you," I inform him, and he shuts the book as I relinquish my beautiful folder. "And believe me, they're enough to make your blood run cold."

He arches an eyebrow. "Yes, Greg?" The familiar irk of irritation mingled with curiosity is there. Ah, my horrible jokes. I am such a huge moron.

"Seems that the blood on the carpet wasn't the victim's. Wasn't the suspect's either." He flips open the file as I speak, and I continue. "But it's a half-match with the vic, so I think we're looking for a son."

Now, both of Grissom's eyebrows are raised. "But the victim doesn't have a son," he points out, glancing up from the file to make eye contact with me.

I smile. Not just like a smart, happy little blood tech, but like a chess-team MVP asked to prom by the head cheerleader. "Evidently, he does," I reply merrily. "I triple-checked the results, just in case. He definitely has a kid that you don't know about. Or…"

"…his identical twin does." The pieces fall into place, and he claps me on the shoulder. "Thanks, Greg."

I watch him – Mr. Perfect, Mr. Always-Thinking, Mr. Amazing, Mr. Gil Grissom – wander down the hallway, and I grin at his back.

Yeah.

I'm as smooth as a cat…in a room full of rocking chairs.

**Fin.**

Standard Disclaimer: CSI belongs to CBS and Jerry Bruckheimer. Bruckheimer also owns, like, half the world. He probably owns me. But sadly, I do not own his creations. Though it would be nice.

Author's Note: Yeah. Okay. I admit to it. I find Gil/Greg pairing intriguing. In tonight's rerun, Greg went on and on about how he likes to make a presentation to Gil when he has results, and, well, this is what my mind produces when things like that happen.

I am such a slashhead.

March 6, 2005  
12:24 a.m.


End file.
